


Arsonists Lullaby

by aris_renee



Category: The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: ashes fucked-up backstory, canon-typical be gay do crimes attitude, ever wanted to hear about fire as a family? well now you can, no beta we die like album characters, no literally it's just them, the mechs have the weirdest backstories and we do NOT use that enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:34:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28619646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aris_renee/pseuds/aris_renee
Summary: A look into Ashes backstory. Their love for arson started long before the Lucky Sevens, when they were just a kid with a match burning down an orphanage.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	Arsonists Lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first fic (both for the fandom and just in general) because I have never finished a single thing in my life. Please tell me if I messed something up. Also, content warnings for child abuse/neglect, fire/burning alive (not graphic), and death of a parent. Title from Hozier because goddammit I'm gay and yearning. <3

Ashes scrambled backward, spine hitting the wall as they tried to flee. 

“Little brat! Get the hell back!” Mr. Haycon shouted, his footsteps getting closer. 

They ran, their bare feet padding on the dark wood until they got to the old closet. Shutting the door, they hid behind the coats until even if it was opened, Ashes couldn’t be seen.

_ Quiet now, Ash.  _ The voice of their father in their head drowned out all other noises.  _ We can’t get caught, now can we? _

They drew their knees up to their chest and waited. 

Mr. Haycon never found them. Eventually, though, they left the closet for dinner. Whatever punishment they got couldn’t rival the joy of not getting caught. 

If you live on Malone, you’re one of four things. A gang member, a cop, in debt, or dead. Ashes was none of those, but they remember being one. They remember the clandestine meetings, folks in suits standing around a map, burning holes where they planned to strike next. They remember their father, his hand over theirs, as they attempted to use a lighter. The smell of gasoline and the roar of the flames. But fire is dangerous, and if you get too close, well, you have only yourself to blame for the burns.

Ashes sat on the stairwell, the rickety orphanage creaking in the wind. They were in their best outfit, starched almost to death. Mr. Haycon’s voice filtered in through the door, laughing with an older woman. An older man that, according to the staff, was there to adopt them. Again. This time, they were sure, would be no different. They’d stay for a while, pick up any matches and gasoline, steal whatever trinkets they could, and then leave. Back out to the streets, where they belonged. Try to find their father’s gang. There’d be a few blissful days where they were free and could burn and steal as much as they wanted, sleeping below the platinum sky. And then someone would find them, and it’d be back to another orphanage. 

There’s only so much running a little kid can do, though. And Ashes was so very young. Their life had been filled with violence and hunger and  _ loss _ , and they were sick of it. The world was corrupt and no one gave a shit about some budding arsonist. 

Ashes had always been a quiet child. They schemed and hid in the shadows because being known was dangerous. They had also been an angry child. A fed-up child. An abused and sick of this and  _ burning _ child. There was so much bottled up that couldn’t be released in plain old garbage fires or petty crimes. No, they wanted something big. Something to show those bastards who they should care about, who they should pay attention to, goddammit. Who they shouldn’t hurt. 

After their dad died, there wasn’t much in the way of parenting for little Ashes. You protect yourself, and you fight tooth and nail to be safe. The only family they’d had in those dark years was fire. It was the flickering of the flames, the smoke curling up into the air like silk, the remains left behind. Fire was the only constant throughout all that turbulence. They could set a fire anywhere. 

The matches weren’t a problem. They had plenty of those. Collected them like a crow building a nest, never knew when you might need a good fire. Gasoline was a bit tricky, though. They snuck out each night, breaking into the stores and homes nearby. They’d come bag lugging gallons as quietly as they could back to their room. And they were always very quiet. The timing was another issue. The fuel had to be spread, and enough matches lit so that there was no chance of the building being saved. A festival was coming up, so they could do it then, sneak away and set it alight, no casualties. Or while everyone was sleeping. Burn them alive, just like their father was. 

The thing is, children, especially hurt ones, tend to get mean. It’s not malicious, really. When you don’t provide a child with basic needs, you have only yourself to blame for how they react. Also, if you're doing that you deserve whatever’s coming. Ashes didn’t think about the other kids, didn’t need to. They weren’t family. Those kids never stood up for them, never stayed Mr. Haycon’s hand, or gave them ice for their bruises. Ashes only cared for them and theirs and theirs were either dead or already on fire. 

The night was peaceful and still, the air humid as always. Not a sound could be heard, even as the arsonist tiptoed down the hall, pouring gasoline as they went. This planet always smelled of it, so that wasn’t any different than usual either. They stopped in front of a big wooden door, one of the few closed rooms in the building, making sure to put extra there. Mr. Haycon wouldn’t be getting out. And then they walked back. In the light of the moon, they could just barely see the lock they were picking. Outside now, they turned and looked at the home one last time. And, like so many times after and so many times before, Ashes O’Reilly lit a match. 

It caught fast. They hid behind a trash can, watching the building burn. Flames licked up the sides, following the breadcrumb trail to the witch's house. The crackling of that fire was the best noise Ashes had ever heard, second only to their father’s laugh. Smoke went up in plumes, covering the sky and dressing the moon. The fire lasted long into the night until all that was left was ashes and Ashes.

**Author's Note:**

> hi there! this was fueled by NaNoWriMo mania and I have not looked at it since. thank you for reading and have a nice day!


End file.
